by James H Bird
“Go get help!” Marty snapped. Then softer “Make sure the EMTs know we got hurt people here,” she swept her hand vaguely then gently grabbed my arm. “Tell them…we have…” she paused looking at the thin man then the Mexican woman, “Just hurry, tell them to hurry!”
I stepped around Marty toward the door. The sirens were loud, numbing my ears. A state trooper went flying by along the shoulder. The car with the stuck horn still blaring its maddening monotone, loud shouts, smoke, noise, rushing people. The bus driver was moving, dialing a cell phone rubbing the side of her face. She made a gesture with her right arm as if she were gesturing people to get out.
I turned to leave, surprised to see that I had to leap out the door; the stoop was four feet from the ground. I hopped down. The pavement was warm. There was glass everywhere, crunching like tiny sea shells as I stepped. Vapors of diesel and the sickly-sweet almond odor of coolant hissed from the cars. A noxious cocktail of steam and smoke whiffed around like cool low country morning mist. I turned around; the bus had run over a small car, angled at the sky, poised as a missile ready to launch from a back of a military truck. The car, flattened, unrecognizable, sky blue roof and windows invisible, tires flat, wheels pushed into the body, black-orange viscous fluids trickling out in small searching streams. Behind the car for several yards hideous gouging black and white scrapes dug into the hard concrete that told of this small car's final moments. The bus hunched on top, its huge tires off the ground and bowed around as if it were trying to scoop up the tiny car and carry it home. A strange maternal affect. I winced at the fate of the occupants remembering that crunch realizing it was the last agonizing moments of their lives.
I helped several people down from the bus. A cab driver appeared and began to help the debarking process. He had been a few cars behind and able to swerve off the road. With a grunt, we both lifted Quasimodo down to the ground as though we were struggling with a futon mattress on a flight of spiral stairs. Glass and debris crunched and crackled under our feet. I patted him on his shoulder has he hobbled off, aided by the cabbie. Thin man was next, guided by Marty from above. He had a queer empty mien. One of the Mexican women appeared at the door. She held a bloody cloth to her chin and clutched the doorframe.
“Give me your hand,” I said. She reached out while I grasped her forearm firmly with my left and cradled her in my right arm and lifted her out and down. Her skin pale brown, spotted and deeply wrinkled. Her hair white as cotton, wisped in the breeze. She was remarkably light as if filled with air. She was quivering while I walked a few steps and gently set her on her feet.
“Gracias, Señor.” She pushed me away with her arm. I sensed she felt shame that a strange man touched her.
“De nada. Are you alright? Stay here,” I said. She leaned against the back of a car glancing sideways toward the bus. She began crying, holding the cloth to her mouth raising her other arm to the top of her head. Her eyes where wide and surprised. I turned and for the first time took in the magnitude of the Hollywood-like surreal scene.
Bonnie's bike survived the impact and I drew her windbreaker from the saddle bag and a water bottle from the frame. I felt like I was rummaging around in her purse, her private area. I bounded back into the bus and back to Bonnie, my heart pounding against the meat in my chest. Bonnie leaning forward against the seat with her head rest resting on her good arm, the one in the pack, the other across her lap. I sat next to her. She seemed small, balled up like a child.
“Hey, you good?” I said.
She nodded without lifting her head. I covered her with the wind breaker and pulled her hair through and smoothed it down her back. I put my arm around her shoulders and leaned forward. “I’ll go for help now,” I said in a low comforting voice. I lay the water bottle beside her. She nodded her head her hair moving. Her breathing level, her eyes without shock. “Is there is anything I can do for you?” Bonnie turned her head, our faces were even. It was like we were lying in bed. I wanted to kiss her. I stroked the side of her face. Our eyes focused on that place where the soul begins, where words unspoken and knowing. She sighed and smiled at me without showing teeth the corners of her mouth curved. Her soft light hair framing her gentle face, the faint freckles aligned across her nose like the Milky Way on a clear night. Her blue eyes moving side to side, slow blinks that uncovered a different communication. As if she were a child sweeping a bubble wand in the spring air. The next bubble bigger more color reflecting from the sun. Alive, a floating pulsating translucent globe, lazily drifting across the sky. I tucked her hair around her small ear, put my hand on her face. A face that you want to wake next to for the first time and for many times after that. I was experiencing the thing I fear the most the realization I had to give in and lose a part of myself and the possibility of no return. This picture of her face that beautiful face the physical touching the tension and uncertainty the yearning mixed into one truth. That one perfect moment in a lifetime and no matter how many times you try, it never comes again.
“I’ll make sure somebody gets here quick,” I wanted to change the subject that was on my mind. I’d have preferred to have asked her what she wanted for breakfast.
She whispered, “Thank you so much, you’re so sweet,” her smile relaxed she closed her eyes.
I straightened her hair, “I’ll be back; somebody will be here soon.”
I looked back at guitar man he was lying back against the seat his arms across his forehead.
“I’m going for help, stay put.” I yelled to him. He gave me another thumbs up. The bus driver was kneeling next to the Mexican woman. She had a medical kit next to her.
World’s Greatest Grandmother
I made it back down off the bus, “This is no coincidence Bonnie, this terrible mess. Perhaps this tragedy has brought us together,” I said to myself shaking my head. The scene was a unique unreality. The sun was a dim orange ball pulsing through hazy gray ocean of smoke filled with the stench of burning rubber. The horizon lost to clouds of catastrophe. Cars lay burning like individual pyres. People had begun till about disappearing and reappearing through the sullen miasma. It was oddly, unnaturally silent.
Ten yards ahead, a dark-colored sports vehicle lay on its side, its motor running, its back tires spinning, and the whole thing wobbling like a dog with an itch. Smoke puffing from its exhaust. The horn was still blaring, incessantly screaming its mechanical confusion. The wail of sirens grows, drilling through the grim air. Patrol cars, fire trucks, tow trucks, descending on our island of anguish. Overhead a helicopter circled low, a small airplane was making an approach to Jeff Co airport.
The sirens were loud now. I looked up. A woman in a long blue denim dress and white lose knit sweater stood against the cement barrier just ahead of the bus. Her hands clasped over her mouth and nose, her eyes red brimmed, she was trembling, her hands and face a palsy of grief, staring into a dark blue sedan. The car had been caught between the bus and a small panel truck. The momentum of the bus, perched on top of a little car, had slammed into the sedan crushing it as I would an aluminum can. The trunk completely smashed and the back seats jammed forward, occupying the space where the front seats should be. There was a man frantically trying the open the driver’s side door. I walked to the passenger side and tried the handle, then looked in.
A picture of horror, a woman, appearing about fiftyish, caught in a moment of ultimate surprise and terror, crushed in a death grip. Sitting straight up and forward, her steering wheel gouged deep into her lower ribcage and abdomen, severing her nearly in two. Her lap and thighs covered in a dark wet blood. Her milky expression captured the ephemeral moment, her eyes bulged out, gaping at finality, mouth wide open as if she where witnessing a fantastic feat of athleticism. Her hand lay limp on the seat at her side. She seemed animated, as if at any second she would snap into life and begin showing me pictures of her family. From the rear view mirror hung a gold heart on a chain, the words “World’s Greatest Grandma” were scripted across the heart in red.
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A fire truck roared to a stop on the other side of the barrier. A rescue vehicle followed on its heels, its rescuers deployed en masse spreading out among the carnage. Several began to setup a triage station and establish a casualty collection point. over a loudspeaker, that
"anyone requiring assistance should move to the selected area.". This does several things at once, it identifies patients that are not so severely injured, that they need immediate help, it physically clears the scene, and provides possible assistants to the responders.
As those who can move, do so, the responders then ask, "anyone who still needs assistance, yell out or raise your hands"; this further identifies patients who are responsive, yet maybe unable to move.
Now the responders can rapidly assess the remaining patients who are either expectant, or are in need of immediate aid. From that point the first responder is quickly able to identify those in need of immediate attention, while not being distracted or overwhelmed by the magnitude of the situation.
I gave the door handle a last tug and backed away feeling wretched and dirty. A fireman scooted under the bus to inspect the little car; he shouted something to another fireman who shouted something into a walkie-talkie. Another rescue worker approached the dark blue sedan carrying a large pry bar. She was medium height, dark, large eyes, nose and mouth, with a thick braid of brown hair hanging to her middle back. Pretty in a tomboy way with the hands of a man, veined and strong, her face sporting a grim determined air, her small frame swallowed in a grungy yellow fireman's coat. Her eyes, seeing the ghastly horror, widened for an instant then narrowed to confront the door. I kept backing up, the golden heart twinkling in the lights.
Down the road toward Denver, cars sat shuffled about as though tossed by gambler throwing dice. A refrigerated seafood truck lay on its side. The prison bus turned sideways but still upright. There appeared to be a scuffle inside. There was a woman, on the shoulder next to a crunched horse trailer, in beige cowboy hat, trying to calm a horse pulling in quick jerks. Frantically snapping its head back against its bit, pulling, one of its back legs raised so to not put weight on it, terrified and hysterical. The woman tried to blind the horse by putting her hat over its eyes. Closer, a motorcycle on its side, sitting against it a helmeted rider with his head in his hands, his jeans torn and bloody at the thigh and knee. Two EMTs were running toward him. The scene was one of organized desperation with pockets of triage bordered by living statues of the dazed. Animated men and women standing next their cars talking on cell phones. The rescue people pushing stretchers like on a competition shopping spree. In the distance, a dark figure was running across the field.
In between gust of the receding wind, spirals of smoke and steam would twist and swoop, reflecting a pulsating yellow, red and blue from the flashing lights. The air sharp, everything was sharp. The ground sticky goo, I didn’t want to touch anything, I wanted to fly away with Bonnie. Motors idled and generators hummed, a sound of a chainsaw erupted. Voices crackled over radios. An ambulance swooped in on the shoulder. I motioned toward the bus and barked in a commanding voice that people were hurt. A woman in a uniform hopped out the back and began retrieving gear, snapping open compartments, extracting instruments of their grim trade. She bounded into the bus followed by another. I joined a small group of six, forming at the side of the ambulance, helpless and overcome. Nausea crept up my throat. A county deputy stood a few yards away, his hand on his gun and the other keying his mic on his shoulder. We stood silent; someone finally disconnected that awful horn. Almost instantly, I could breathe easier and see clearer. The rescue workers tossed a gray-green tarp over the truncated sedan. An EMT began handing out bottled water and told us to stay. I took a drink; my hands were shaking. I felt as if I were swallowing a tennis ball. I began to shiver. I spat a coppery taste of phlegm and leaned back against the ambulance. I wondered if this was how people reacted that day a month ago in New York and Arlington. The terror, the unknowing, the shock to system. To see the unimaginable. To be a part of a thing that changed everyone involved and by extension to those not. The emotions that hit them when they open their front door and their family rushes to them, clinging.
We walked back to the side of the bus. Three news helicopters circling above, and a medevac landing in a field. There was a stretcher by the bus door. The bus driver and two EMTs brought the other Mexican woman out on a back board and loaded her on a stretcher and wheeled her to the ambulance. She was not moving. Her friend walked beside her. Bonnie came next led by an EMT. She had a temporary air cast on her arm. She gave me a small smile. I saw that gaze in her eyes. My heart jumped. She stopped and I moved toward her. She looked around at the wrecked cars, the excited people and the helicopters. She blinked her eyes from the smoke, her expression as if she had emerged from a dark cave. I took her fanny pack and led her away by the arm.
“Can you take her to a hospital? The ambulance is full,” the EMT said his voice muffled by the noise. “I don’t think it is a serious break but she needs a doctor,”
“I was on this bus,” I tilted my head and looked at Bonnie. “I’ll make sure she gets there,” in a steady voice.
“Good,” He said and trotted off toward the car on its side. Firemen were cutting the roof. They moved fast. A group of on lookers had gathered around like culinary exhibition with a chainsaw, talking and pointing, squatting down to get a better view. Two EMTs standing next to a gurney.
The cabbie came and a deal was struck. The driver seemed sad, old and tired. Leathery face and a hard guise. I looked over at his cab, Anytime Boulder Cab Company.
“You work for Sam Manual?”
“Yeah,” he said in a gruff voice. “I was his first driver”. He looked me hard in the eyes when he said this. He looked tough as a street fighter or boxer. He opened the door for Bonnie. The cabbie said he will take Bonnie to the Porter hospital, free. I retrieved Bonnie's bike and the cabbie put it his trunk. I went to the side of the cab leaned in to talk, “You going to be all right? Would you like me to come with you?” I said.
“I’m alright. My sister is there. She’s a nurse at Children’s. She knows the doctors at Porter. It does hurt so badly now … Can I call you tonight when I get home?” she said her voice was clear. She had a hopeful expression.
“Absolutely,” I handed her a card. “My number and email, web address. All that stuff is on there.”
“Thanks.”
I watched the cab drive away and immediately felt lonely. I wished to be home to wait for her call. I leaned back against the ambulance. I was completely drained like after a difficult motorcycle race, where I narrowly avoided several wrecks. I wanted to concentrate on Bonnie. My feelings for her and what made sense of this horrific day. This thinking made me happy. I kept my mind there. The ambulance behind me vibrating from the engine. The air still smelled of almonds. The helicopters whump whum whump above. The sirens were silent. People talking, radios crackling the random noises of busy people. I closed my eyes and saw Bonnie’s face next to mine.
Funny how thing s work out.
The Staggering Man
Whump, whump, whump, a MEDIVAC helicopter landed on a bucolic field about twenty yards from the scene of the crash. I watched as it set down with a short sliding stop on its skids. Frighten cows and steers run across the field to place wherever cows go to get away from helicopters. The side door was open, I could see the Critical Care Air Transport Team hop out from a crouched posture and rush toward a staggering man. I didn’t recognize him as a former occupant of the crippled Denver EXPRESS. He acted as if he were disoriented and confused waving his arms in jerky rotations and wobbling like a drunk. The Critical Care Team approached him as if he were a dangerous animal.
A gaggle of cars trapped the prisoner bus, other than that it appeared it had survived the wreck. There appeared to be some movement inside. A State Trooper, his hand on his pistol, banged on the door.
I saw a light blue old model Pontiac Firebird its left front end bashed in an
d the roof dented, crinkled and covered with dirt and grass. It must have rolled. The car lay upright in the ditch about twenty yards behind. That’s probably what hit us. I could see someone in the passenger side clearly in distress.
The Critical Care Air Transport Team had surrounded the staggering man.
Then I jogged toward the passenger side of the Firebird. Flames were lapping out the rear of the car. Bejebus that close to the tank. This thing might blow. The man inside was agitated and slapping the dashboard grimacing and cursing in Spanish and English. His other hand grasping his leg. I leaned in as sparks jumped from under the dash.
“Hey man you hurt?”
“Yeah,” he groaned. “My leg… I think it’s busted.”
“We got to get out of here!”
I tugged on the door handle but the door only budged a half of an inch. I tugged and rattled but the impact of the wreck jammed the door. I hollered out to a fireman for help but they were consumed with mass-casualty incident triage. Someone was going to have to make some tough decisions.
Because of the severity of their injuries, some will die regardless of medical care. Others would live if given immediate medical care, but would die without it. To give medical care to people who will die anyway is care withdrawn from others who might have survived had they been treated instead. It becomes the task of the disaster medical team leaders to set aside some victims as hopeless, to avoid trying to save one life at the expense of several others. Deceased are left where they fell. Assessment is a continuous process and leaders check categories regularly to ensure that the priority remains correct.
“The damn door is stuck!” I kept tugging but the door stubbornly refused to open. “Try opening from the inside!” I could see the car going up in a fireball any second. I felt a tightness in my chest.